The rest of the day passes by me like I’m in a fog, trapped by smoke so thick I can barely choke it down. I make it through history and English. Then as the school empties for the day, it’s just me and the other losers sitting with Walker in detention.
All I can think about is what King will do to me—or worse, my mom or sister. I’m the man of the house; I’m the one who’s supposed to be taking care of them. Yet here I am, trapped at a desk. Watching the clock, my heart speeds faster than the hand clicking the seconds away.
Walker is working on his laptop, occasionally looking up to give us all the hairy eyeball. I’m stuck with the typical detention kids: stoners caught smoking pot or huffing in the janitor’s closet, the token cool kids being made an example of for chatting and texting during class, two jocks, both with black eyes, who glare at the rest of us, and an emo chick who hides her face behind her hair the entire time.
Despite the worry turning my spit sour and the acid churning through my gut over King’s retaliation, I stare out the window, trying hard not to imagine what he’ll do to me.
There are a few kids milling out front, missed their bus or waiting for rides. A silver Camry pulls up, the horn honks twice, and a man jumps out of the driver’s seat, leans across the roof, smiling right at me.
The car’s nothing like my dad’s—he always had different ones, old junkers we’d work on together and then he’d sell them and start over again—and the man doesn’t look like him, but for a moment, a single moment, less time than it would take an atom to split, my heart beats faster, warming my entire body as I smile back. It’s Dad. He’s come to rescue me, to save Janey and my mom.
For the duration of one breath—not even a full breath, all I do is inhale, imagining Dad’s scent of leather and grease and Lava soap—I’m free. King can’t hurt me. No one can.
Then I blink and a kid races to the car, the man waving to him to hop in, and they drive off—leaving me with the same void in my heart that I’ve had since my dad left four years ago. I lower my head down onto my desk, closing my eyes against the rush of emptiness. I should be used to it by now. Besides, I can’t afford the luxury of indulging in fantasies, like Dad ever coming back.
But if I did, my dream would go like this: I finish school and get a job, probably by joining the army. It’s not a lot of money, but it’s enough so I can afford a place for Janey and my mom. In my dream, they’re sitting inside my truck, I’m loading the last suitcase into the back of the pickup, and my uncle comes running out to stop me.
I whirl and land one of those punches that only happen in the movies. Smack and my uncle goes down…and he stays down, staring up at me with a mix of fear and respect.
Janey and Mom cheer. I hop into the truck and drive us off into the sunset and our new lives. Away from him. Away from King.
That’s my dream, what keeps me sane. I might even be able to make it come true if I work hard enough, focus. Just have to make it through high school, just have to survive that long…
Our phones are lined up in front of Walker’s laptop like trophies. One of the girls’ cells—pink and all bedazzled in rhinestones—keeps vibrating, bouncing against the desktop, buzz, buzz, buzz…buzz, buzz, buzz…until it finally skitters all the way across the desk and falls to the floor between the desk and the wall.
A blond girl wearing more makeup than my mom ever has bounces up. “Mr. Walker,” she calls. “My phone!”
Walker looks up, irritated. He rolls his eyes, but it’s obvious she’s one of the rich kids whose folks could hassle him for destruction of property or the like, because he gets down on his hands and knees behind the desk to scramble for the phone. It’s still buzzing and skids under the radiator. He curses and I see my chance.
Before I can think twice, I race past the desk, grab my phone, and rush out the door and down the hall. I spin around a corner and plow into the girls’ room, figuring they’ll never look for me here.
Footsteps pass by outside in the hall. I lean panting against the sink, thinking I might be sick. My eyes are wide, like a wild animal’s, and I barely even notice the fruity perfume smell of the pink soap or how much cleaner the girls’ room is compared to the guys’. All I care about is a few moments of privacy so I can call King and beg his forgiveness.
The hall is silent. I risk moving into the farthest stall—the handicapped one with its own sink and a tiny window. My fingers tremble so bad they bounce off the phone’s keyboard. We use an Internet calling app—less traceable, King says, plus we can do video. One-way, of course. He sees me. I’ve never seen him.
It rings four times, each ring ratcheting up my pulse, until finally King answers with a gruff, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“It wasn’t me. I didn’t turn off my phone. The vice principal confiscated it.” I plead my case in a rush, not bothering to breathe between words.
“You know the rules.”
“It wasn’t my fault. The teacher—”
“I can’t help it if you’re too stupid to outwit some dumb teacher. There are consequences when you don’t listen to me. You know that by now.”
I scramble, trying to come up with a solution. I have nothing. Finally I say, “What do you want?”
There’s a pause and I know the bastard is smiling. Like always, he has me exactly where he wants me—no way out.
You think I’d be used to it by now, but every time I surrender to him, I lose a piece of myself. Like those zombie movies where they reach inside your chest and tear out your heart or intestines or liver. That’s me, walking around with half my insides torn out—half boy, half zombie, all of me belonging to King.
“It’s not what I want,” King says. “It’s what my friend wants. He’s kinda like your uncle, only he likes girls. Watch.”
The phone’s screen cuts to a video feed. From the date and time stamp, I know it’s live. At first all I see is a car dash and steering wheel. Then the camera jerks up, and I see a school bus pull up to let some little kids out on a country road with no sidewalks. My road.
“No. You can’t.” My pulse throttles my voice until only a whisper escapes.
I swallow hard as the kids climb down the bus steps and scatter in all directions. The camera focuses on one little girl walking with two others, a bright pink backpack making her an easy target.
Janey.
“Please. Tell him to stop. I’ll do anything.” Sweat cements my shirt to my flesh as I search for a way out. I can’t go through the school—too many teachers and guards. I’ll have to risk going out the window. I try to force it open. Locked.
“Tell him to stop!” I scream as the car door opens. The camera jerks up and down when the man holding it crosses the street to follow the girls. Follow Janey.
King says nothing.
“Answer me, you son of a bitch!” Anger and panic fuel my punch as I swing my fist into the window. Hurts like hell but bounces right off. Damn safety glass. I spin for the door; I’ll just have to make it past whoever might be searching for me outside.
“Is that the tone of voice you use with me?” King demands, his voice flat.
I pause, my hand on the door. My entire body vibrates with the need to get to Janey, the urge to hit something—someone. I force myself to swallow my rage, close my eyes, and whisper, tasting every word as vomit: putrid, rancid remnants of my soul. “I’m sorry. Please stop him. Please. Don’t hurt my baby sister. She’s only seven. I said I was sorry.”
Silence.
“Please.” I’m begging for her life—not that King cares. “I’ll do anything. Just stop him.”
The man in the video keeps walking. Janey can’t wait for King’s answer.
I open the door and speed out into the hall, sideswiping a janitor, sending his bucket across the linoleum to crash into the lockers. He yells but I don’t hear it. All I hear is the silence on the phone. I race down the hall, take a corner so fast my sneakers squeak as I skid, bounce off the wall, and aim for the side doors, praying they’re still unlocked. Someone shouts my name from behind me, but I ignore them.
As I run, I dare a glance down at the video. Janey’s at our door, fumbling for her key.
“You’re supposed to be there with her, aren’t you?” King says. “Little girl like that, it’s not safe for her to be alone with no one at home.”
The man with the camera starts up our driveway.
“No, please.” I’m sobbing now, don’t care. Any pride I had has long since been ripped away. “Please, make him stop.”
“It’s all your fault. It’s your job to protect her. Your job to do as I say. You failed on both counts, JohnBoy.”
I reach the door at full speed, prepared to crash through it headfirst if it’s locked. My hand hits the push bar. Thankfully it slams open and I’m free.
The man reaches our front steps.
I was running late this morning, so my truck is parked at the far end of the lot. The world goes red around the edges as I run faster than I ever have in my life.
It will take me eight minutes to drive home, even if I speed. I try not to think about what could happen in eight minutes, but of course that’s all I can think about, visions of blood and Janey’s screams filling my mind.
Then the man looks down. I can see his shoes: polished black leather, little tassels with brass horseshoes holding them in place. Crisply creased charcoal colored slacks. Much too nice for the cracked pavement of our concrete stoop. The camera gives a little shiver and his hand appears. In it is a large folding knife—the kind hunters use to skin their kills.
“No!” I yell, my voice hoarse. “Please, King. No!”
“You knew the consequences. I’m a man of my word, JohnBoy.”
The man flicks the knife open with one hand.
The screen goes black.